


Not Moving On

by JewishDavidJacobs



Category: Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: 5 Times, Five Plus One
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:14:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26991220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JewishDavidJacobs/pseuds/JewishDavidJacobs
Summary: When did his life become this? It used to be so much easier. Now all he does is worry about how to make it to the next day.He wants his old life back. It was stolen from him and he wants it back.But that world is gone. That David is, too.Or: 5 times David was homesick and 1 time he puts things in perspective.
Relationships: David Jacobs & Les Jacobs, David Jacobs & Sarah Jacobs
Comments: 7
Kudos: 32





	Not Moving On

**1.**

The lecture lasts about forty-five minutes.

His mother places him in a chair as soon as he walks in the door. In her world, if two people are standing, they’re on even ground, but if only one is standing, that person is the absolute authority. He’s only been placed in the chair a few times in his life and never so roughly.

She cuts into him with the fury of a woman who has seen real tragedy, experienced real suffering — and she has. It’s the fury of a mother overcome with fear. Her yells are all whispered, and he wonders if she truly believes her other children are asleep.

It’s forty-five minutes, but it feels like far more and far less.

She criticizes him for being shortsighted, for being immature and irresponsible. He flinches when she describes the tears his little brother shed when he got home and his protector stayed behind to care for other children. She says he’s become too American, too gentile. She says his grandfather is rolling over in his grave, ashamed.

His father sits behind her and doesn’t speak.

It’s forty-five minutes. It’s full of cold words and harsh tones and so much better than he expected.

“Go to bed,” she orders when she’s finished. “There’s no food to eat, so go to bed.”

“Esther,” his father chastises, “leave him alone.”

His wife glares and exits to the other room.

“David…” Mayer begins.

“I’m sorry, Aba,” he chokes out. “I’m sorry.”

“No,” he tuts. “Come here.”

David awkwardly scootches his chair over, parallel with his father’s. Mayer wraps an arm around him and David sinks into his hold. He rests his head on his shoulder.

“If you were smaller, I’d pull you into my lap like I did when you were a boy and you needed your father.”

David feels a hand come to rest on the back of his head.

“I don’t think your leg would take kindly to that,” he jokes softly.

“That wouldn’t matter,” his father says in all seriousness. “If my son needs me, I’m there.”

The comment makes David’s task of pulling himself together that much harder. “Thank you,” he whispers.

“Are you hurt?” Mayer asks.

“I told you—”

“You forget I know you, boychik.”

David can hear his smile. “It’s…I’m fine.”

“David.”

“One of the other boys patched me up. I’m really okay, Aba,” he promises. He thinks it’s true because he doesn’t want to think anything else. He hopes his father feels the same.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats a little while later. “I’m sorry I got Les hurt.”

“Did you yank his arm?” Mayer asks.

David shakes his head against his father’s shoulder. “No, but—”

“Then it isn’t your fault. In any case, he’s fine. That eye, on the other hand—” He gestures at David’s face “—might be a problem. I wish I had something cold to give you for it.”

David smiles softly for his sake even though he knows he can’t see it. “It doesn’t hurt much. I forgot about it.”

Mayer hums.

“Aba?” David does not want to ask. It is unfair to ask. He knows that where Esther is terrified for her sons, Mayer is proud of them for fighting for justice. Making him answer seems cruel, but David has to. If he doesn’t, he knows what he’ll end up doing tomorrow morning. “I have to sell tomorrow, don’t I?”

It’s disgustingly hot out. The kind of heat that makes everything stick to one’s skin and makes the idea of touching anybody else unbearable. But then Mayer strokes the back of his neck and the warmth is pleasant. David almost breaks at it. He inhales shakily and takes in the familiar scent of dill his father has always carried and the newer one of the ointment for his wound. He wishes he could stay like this forever. He wants nothing more than to stay here and sleep, protected by his aba. To be home. 

“Yes, David,” he replies a few moments later. “You have to sell.”

  
  


**2.**

David is surprised that all the bones in his hand haven’t shattered from the pressure Les is putting into his squeeze. He’s scared, David can tell. It hurts his soul to know he is responsible for his little brother’s fear.

“David,” he calls quietly, “when can we eat?”

A pang of guilt. It’s his fault that Les is hungry. That his whole family is hungry.

“Soon,” he promises.

“But when?” Les whines.

“As soon as we sell five papers. Just give me a chance to get five cents and I promise I’ll get you something to eat.”

Les groans.

“You don’t even have to sell, okay? We’ll find you someplace to sit down while I hawk.”

“But you’re terrible at it.”

“I’ll lie,” he responds without hesitation.

“Really?”

He isn’t surprised that Les is surprised. David doesn’t like lying and he’s made that clear over the last few weeks of selling papers, but he will do anything to make Les feel better.

“Really.”

Buttons makes eye contact with him as they approach the gate and hurries over. “Davey, something’s going on.”

“What happened?” he asks nervously. His eyes flicker over the crowd of newsies, searching for a sign of injury or strife.

“It’s Weasel.”

David doesn’t understand.

“Just come with me,” Buttons says. He grabs David’s free hand and tugs him forward.

When Mr. Wiesel comes into his line of sight, it takes David a moment to pinpoint what it is that has Buttons so freaked out. Then he sees it and understands that Buttons isn’t freaked out, he’s excited.

“He’s…”

Buttons nods. “He’s nervous.”

“Don’t he look it?” Albert asks, coming up behind them. His voice is uncharacteristically hushed. “No one but us and Specs and Finch thinks so, but he’s gotta be.”

“You guys know him better than I do,” David offers.

“He’s not being so…so…what’s the word, Buttons?”

“Abrasive?”

“Yeah. Yeah, he’s not being abrasive like usual.”

David is silently impressed by their use of the word. It occurs to him that that is probably a little judgemental. Then he remembers saying it a few days earlier and someone asking what it meant. He had no idea they paid attention.

“Plus, his eyes. Keep moving back and forth real fast.”

“What do we do, boss?”

David looks around. He’s delighted to hear that his friend is back and wants to see if he’s okay, but Jack is nowhere to be found.

“Davey? What do we do?” Buttons repeats Albert’s question.

“I— what, me?  _ I’m _ ‘boss’?”

Albert shoves his hands in his pockets and rolls his eyes. Mr. Maciejewski used to tell Sarah her eyes would get stuck like that if she kept rolling them so hard. He wonders idly if she would like Albert and thinks she would but shoves the thought aside for the time being.

“You see anyone else around here?”

“Yes,” he deadpans. “Literally dozens of people.”

“Whatever. Jack ain’t here so you’re in charge.”

“Since when? And what about Race? Isn’t he Jack’s second?”

“Didn’t come,” Albert says.

“Where is he?” David receives no response. “Guys,” he presses.

Albert and Buttons make brief eye contact before Albert shrugs and replies, “Brooklyn.”

David freezes. “What?”

“Brooklyn.”

“No, I— I heard you. What’s he doing in Brooklyn?”

“He’s probably yelling at Spot Conlon.”

“Does he have a death wish?”

He feels Les’ grip tighten and he squeezes back for a moment in what he hopes is a reassuring gesture. He didn’t mean to scare him.

“He and Spot have a…complicated relationship.”

The tone suggests something David has never talked about in public before, something he’s only heard whispers of. He raises his eyebrows and Albert nods subtly.

“I see,” he replies for a lack of anything better to say. He pushes on. “That still doesn’t explain why I’m in charge.”

“’Cause you are,” Albert says. It isn’t very helpful. “So what do we do?”

David’s immediate thought is that they should leave. If Wiesel was nervous maybe that meant Pulitzer was too. It was probably one of them who sent for the police, and why would they do that if they thought they had nothing to fear? Yes, they should leave. They can still win this. He’s going to say as much.

And then Les whines.

Usually, when his little brother whines it means he’s bored or tired or unhappy. If he’s bored David can roll his eyes, if he’s tired David can carry him, and if he’s unhappy David can comfort him. This isn’t about any of those things; it’s about the grumbling in his stomach that is almost certainly accompanied by aches and pains — David knows because he feels them too.

No matter how important the strike is to him, how important his  _ friends _ are to him, Les comes first. And isn’t that just the way? Les  _ always _ comes first. He has to. David doesn’t resent it, it’s how things are. But today of all days, it’s hard to deal with it.

“I…I’m sorry. I need to sell.”

Buttons looks like he might protest but is stopped by Albert’s gentle tap to his wrist. David sees his eyes turn towards Les exaggeratedly and Buttons relents. At least they understand.

“No!” Les objects. “No, we need to save the strike!” He yanks his hand out of David’s and rubs his wrist as if David was the one with a death grip on Les’s hand and not the other way around.

“Les—”

“No!”

And just like that, Les persuades David by throwing a tantrum for five minutes until he gives in.

When did his life become this? It used to be so much easier. He used to spend his mornings learning in Mr. Smetana’s house, his afternoons playing with Sarah and the other children, and his evenings studying Torah with Aba. Now all he does is worry about how to make it to the next day.

He wants his old life. It was stolen from him and he wants it back.

But that world is gone. That David is, too.

  
  


**3.**

Once the others leave, David tells Les to wait outside with Katherine. He’s more than happy to comply because apparently the reporter they met two days ago is more fun than his big brother.

“Mr. Jacobi, sir?”

David takes his hat off before he goes to him. Mr. Jacobi is sweeping the floor in a way that suggests he has built a rhythm up over hundreds of repetitions, which, David supposes, he has. He is humming quietly and when he turns around, he smiles.

“I’m sorry,” he says, “I forget your name.”

“David, sir. I’m David Jacobs.”

The smile broadens.

“Jacobs? Are you sure that’s how you say?”

“I’m sorry?”

“You can try to hide it all you want, but you can’t hide it from us.” He’s teasing and David feels a little more at ease. “You sound like you’re right off the shtetl. Am I wrong?”

He relaxes fully. “Hardly, sir, but even ‘shtetl’ is too big to describe where I grew. Barely a village.”

Mr. Jacobi laughs.

“Was I that obvious?” he asks, suddenly embarrassed.

“Your e-rs don't need to be so far in the front of your mouth.” He chuckles. “Don’t worry, you sound American to Americans, I’m sure.”

“And you’re…I hope you don’t mind me saying, sir, but you sound very…”

“New York?”

He nods.

“I’ve lived here since I was eleven. It was bound to happen. Now,” he says, leaning the broom against a wall and picking up a rag, “what can I do for you?”

The tricky part. The highly embarrassing part that David doesn’t want to have to do but does.

“Well, sir, my little brother who was here with me before? Les?” David puts his hand out to the side, modeling his brother’s height. “He’s…with the strike going on and everything we haven’t made much money. Or any money, really,” he admits. “He’s hungry, sir, and I don’t have the funds to feed him.”

Mr. Jacobi smiles again. David has no idea why it isn’t offputting, but it isn’t. The smile is affectionate, not pitying, which David appreciates.

Mr. Jacobi says nothing, so David continues. “Is there any chance you would be willing to let me do some work for you in exchange for a meal for him?”

“How old are you?”

The question strikes David as bizarre and he doesn’t think it’s entirely relevant. “Seventeen, sir.”

Mr. Jacobi nods like he already knew the answer. It does nothing to clear up David’s confusion.

“How old is your brother?”

“Nine.”

For some reason, Mr. Jacobi looks pained. Then he nods.

“Bring him back here and I’ll bring out some soup. No charge.”

David is shocked, understandably, he feels. Instead of saying anything that might make Mr. Jacobi change his mind, he nods. He knows he looks like an idiot (it  _ is _ pretty obvious when Mr. Jacobi is smirking like that) so he turns quickly and goes to bring Les inside.

  
  


**4.**

Despite having provided Les with lunch earlier that day, David still spends the evening getting the cold shoulder from his mother. He has a feeling that Les slipped up and mentioned the rally to their parents, but does not feel inclined to test his theory by bringing it up.

The few spoonfuls of soup Les forced him to eat that afternoon now sit heavily in his stomach.

Sarah is sent to bring some mending to Mrs. Chesterfield a few blocks down and David volunteers to escort her. She gives him a knowing look as he takes the basket from her arms and holds the door open for her, but says nothing until they make it out of the building.

“What are you doing?” she asks.

David has no clue what he expected her to say, but is still taken aback. “What do you mean?”

“David. Neshama. Are you honestly going to tell me that you’re  _ not _ planning on sneaking out tonight and holding a rally in Medda’s theater?”

He stares at her blankly. “How’d you—”

“You should know by now what a blabber mouth your little brother is.”

He groans. “Does Ima know?”

Sarah shrugs as she takes his arm. “I doubt it, but she definitely knows something’s up.”

He nods politely as they pass familiar faces and pretends his muscles are not coiled up as tightly as ever. He tries to be the picture of relaxation.

“You know it’s going to be dangerous?”

“Yes.”

“You know you’re going to have to speak in front of a thousand kids?”

He shakes his head frantically. “Absolutely not. That’s all Jack.”

His sister sighs. It sounds fond and David has to resist the urge to say,  _ “Never mind. I’ll stay home and we can read to each other like we did on the ship when one of us was scared and I’ll cling on to you and never, ever let go.” _

“Please don't try to stop me,” he begs instead.

David has never seen this particular look on her face before.

“Because you’ll do it anyway?”

“Because I won’t.”

Neither of them speak again until they drop off the clothing. It was Mrs. Chesterfield’s basket and with nothing to carry, David allows himself to lean into his sister as they walk.

“I wasn’t going to, you know.” Her voice is soft.

He hums. “Wasn’t going to what?”

“Try to stop you. I was going to ask to come with you.”

“Oh. Well, if—”

“Stop. I shouldn’t.”

David frowns. “Why not?”

“Because somebody needs to stop Ima and Aba from freaking out if they wake up and see two of their children are gone and you  _ know _ Les is going no matter what we do.”

He wants her there. In fact, David assumed she would be. “But—”

“And it’s something you need to do on your own.”

“No! No, absolutely not. It isn’t. We do everything together and—”

“That’s my point,” she says. “We do  _ everything  _ together, Neshama.”

David tries not to flinch or slump his shoulders. Does Sarah not want to spend as much time with him anymore? Did she ever? Does she resent him for dragging her along their entire lives?

“Stop it,” she orders. “I can see you spiraling. I love you, David, and I wouldn’t want it any other way, but there are some things we  _ have _ to do alone. We probably aren’t going to live together forever and we aren’t going to be doing the same exact things with our lives.” She strokes his arm gently as they walk. “We haven’t gone to school together in years and we’re going to have romances at some point.”

David sees her face contorting in the way it always does when Sarah is trying to figure out how to say something important in a way that spares her sensitive brother’s feelings. David hates that face.

“We aren’t home anymore.”

Doesn’t he know it.

  
  


**5.**

“The city that never sleeps,” Mush remarks as they make their way down the streets. People are still out and about and lights are still on. Though the daytime certainly brings more chaos, it is by no means quiet.

David hates the constant cacophony. The unpleasant electrical buzzing of the streetlights makes his ears ring and the smoke coming off of the man with the cigar hanging out of his mouth whom he just passed makes him want to vomit, though he can’t say he isn’t used to the smell. He doesn’t even mind, particularly, but it would be great if people didn’t puff directly into his face without so much as an apology.

He wants to hear the annoying chirping of insects and actually  _ see _ the night sky. Being out so late used to feel wrong and special, now it just looks like a darker version of daytime.

God, does David wish this city would fucking sleep. 

  
  


**+1**

“Don’t you ever get tired of singing the same old tune?” The question is aimed at Jack. Jack is the one who wants to leave. Just him, not anyone else. But David has always been terrible at lying, even to himself, and a part of him knows that the same thing can be asked of him. “What’s Santa Fe got that New York don’t? Tarantulas?”

He zones out after that and stays zoned out until Crutchie says, “New York’s got us…and we’s a family.” It is, David will later think, stupid how much that shatters him.

Because what does home have that New York doesn’t? Soldiers coming in the night? An empty village of empty homes that used to be filled with people he loved?

And then he thinks that that, too, is a a stupid thing to think. Home has more than that. It has almost everything sacred to him. It has everything that made David David.

Regardless, he is in New York now and has to learn to deal with it. And no, he isn’t going to suddenly stop thinking of home as home, but he needs to start focusing on what he loves about his new life. Because yes, home has everything that made David David, but New York has everything that makes David Davey.

For now, that’s enough.

It has to be. 


End file.
